Return With Honor
by TrooperCam
Summary: Six Articles guide a Prisoner of War. Six Chapters focusing on Al’s time as a POW. Strong Language, Adult Themes and Violence. You have been warned. Please Read and Review. Last Chapter up
1. Article I

**RETURN WITH HONOR**

**CHAPTER I**

Article I- I am an American fighting in the forces that guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense.

Bingo loved to fly. Soaring above the lush green Earth he felt powerful and free. The F-4 Phantom hummed beneath him and the slightest touch on the throttle enabled his jet to go where he commanded. It was an ironic position for a man whom for so long had no more control over his life than a leaf blowing on the wind has control where it goes.

There was no doubt the Navy was good for Al. The Navy didn't care where you came from or what your family did. The Navy didn't care that when you stepped off the bus at Bancroft Hall the suit you wore had holes in it or that your shoes were a size too big; you were about to take your first steps into the brotherhood of the sea.

It was a long journey even to get on that bus. The Navy recruiter spoke to the assembled group of bored looking boys. Al's eyes like most of the audience glazed over at the talk of ships and seaports far from home. The only place Al wanted to be far from at the moment was this blasted auditorium, but his ears perked up when he heard the Petty Officer talk about flying. Al sat enthralled as the man talked about jet planes and carrier take offs and landings. At the end of the assembly Al pushed his way to the front of the auditorium. He ignored the other boy's cries as he shoved everyone past. Red faced and panting he blurted out, "I want to fly! How do I get to fly?"

Machinist Mate First Class Matthew Scott sized up the small Italian boy standing in front of him. He noted the threadbare shirts, worn shoes and patched pants. Scoffing slightly to himself he thought, "Fly, this boy probably doesn't know enough to become a deckhand." Maintaining his military bearing he collected his thoughts before lowering an intense gaze at the earnest young man before him, "The Navy only allows the best to fly. You think you are the best Mr.…?"

Al stuck out his jaw, "Calavicci…Albert Calavicci but everyone calls me Al."

"Well Al, you can enlist and try for flight school. You can go to college on an ROTC scholarship or you can try for the Naval Academy."

"Which is the best?"

"Well, the Naval Academy is the hardest. They only take in a very small pool of applicants and it is very difficult to even compete. Your grades have to be among the best and you have to be of sound mind, good physical health, and good character, but if you want to fly that would be the best way." Petty Officer Scott figured the young man would get the hint and set his sights on more realistic goals like enlisting. He didn't know Al Calavicci.

Father Padric O'Brien had a reputation for being tough but fair. He believed it was his God given duty to guide the young men in his care to the best way for them. He believed in discipline and hard work and that each boy should be put on a path what would make them successful men in life. Some boys he guided towards the priesthood, some towards higher education, some vocational training, and some towards the military. Al Calavicci he had on a course to become a mechanic. The boy showed aptitude for the mechanical but with no family support to count on Father O'Brien thought it foolish to encourage thoughts of college for the young orphan.

He wasn't unfamiliar with Al. The boy landed at least once a week in his office for some fight. Al was hot tempered, quick to anger, and good with his hands. Too good as it turned out; Al's hands had landed him more than once in Juvenile Detention. When Sister Mary told him Albert was here to see him, Father O'Brien braced himself for the sight of a bruised, bloody, and wholly defiant Al. What he didn't expect was the bounding mass of energy that exploded into his office.

"Father I want to go to the Naval Academy. The recruiter said that I could go to the Academy and that the Navy would let me fly jet. I want to fly jets." The words tumbled out in a torrent before the young man even reached the edge of the priest's desk.

"Woah son, slow down, what's this about jets?"

Al collected his thoughts, "The Navy recruiter said that if I wanted to fly jets the best way to do it was to apply and go to the Naval Academy. He said the Navy would teach me to fly jets. He said it was the best way. I want to fly jets Father."

"The Naval Academy is very difficult. You need good grades, recommendations, and no misconduct."

Al felt his heart sink. He knew Father was referring to Juvie, "If I get good grades and stay out of trouble I could get a recommendation right?" Al's brown eyes bore directly into the priest's.

"Alright Albert, the term is almost over. You will need new classes, a sport and," the priest pointed his finger directly at Al, "No misconduct at all. No more stealing, no more trouble at all. The first bit of trouble and I will pull any and all support. Do we have a deal?"

"Yes Father, I promise. Thank you."

It wasn't easy. Math and science replaced shop in Al's schedule and he struggled through advanced classes in History, English, and Languages. Al was determined though; he stayed late and began to impress his teachers with his work ethic. They offered their time to coach Al in his subjects helping him through the difficult ideas and concepts. Al found he had a natural affinity for Math and Science. The formulas and numbers made sense to him. Math was like a car engine, if one part was out of order the thing didn't work. Father O'Brien also got Al started in Track and Field. Early malnutrition had stunted Al's growth slightly so football was out as a sport, but Al was fast and Track seemed like a logical fit. He excelled at the long sprints and hurdles becoming first city and then State champion in both the 110 meter and 400 meter hurdles. In his junior year Al sat the College Boards. His scores put him among the top students in the country and soon schools began to recruit him. Some offered athletic scholarship, some offered academic scholarships but Al wanted the Naval Academy. He prayed every day to Jesus and Mary and all the saints that the letter would some and when the letter arriving inviting Al into the Naval Academy Class of 66 he openly wept with pride and joy.

Al stepped off the bus and immediately knew what Dorothy felt like in Oz. Everywhere he looked midshipmen were marching or running in cadence. Al hurried along feeling not so unlike a cattle being herded. Indoc Day was just the first step. Tomorrow started Plebe Summer, a six week course in hell for the Candidates. The days bled together as Candidate Calavicci endured the rigors of Plebe Summer. It was hard, it was meant to be but Al took to the regime easily. Order and discipline were expected at the orphanage and the early training served him well now. Stand up straight, make your bed with sharp corners, tight blankets, keep your room clean, double time and sound off. Soon Plebe Summer ended and Candidate Calavicci became Plebe Calavicci.

Academically the coursework was difficult and Al struggled but he put his willpower to work once again and dug deep. The photos of jets he kept in his wall locker gave him inspiration when his spirits were down and slowly his graded improved.

It wasn't always easy for Al to find his way. The Navy as a whole might not care where a young man came from but there were those cadets who made it known they didn't think Al was of the right stock to be at the Academy. This made Al's blood boil in outrage. He had earned his place the same as any other midshipman. Some midshipmen went out of their way to make it hard for Al and one day in the Dining Hall it boiled over.

Plebe Robert Jenkins was one of those who felt Al didn't deserve the right to befoul the Academy's grounds. The son of a Congressman he was being groomed to go into the family business like his father and his grandfather before him. The product of Prep Schools, Jenkins smirked and made jokes about Al's poor background. This sort of behavior one expected from the Firsties. From the seniors you had to take it, hazing and abuse was expected but Al refused to accept crap from a fellow Plebe. One day as Al was marching to his place in the dining hall he felt his foot catch and Al fell flat on his face. He got up and saw Jenkins' smirking face looking back at him. Al knew this wasn't no accident and lit on the now shocked Plebe with the full fury of his anger and hate. It took four men to drag the screaming Italian off the other man. The midshipmen dragged Al to his room and locked him inside.

"I should throw you out," the Superintendent stared straight at Al, his eyes boring holes at the young man standing rigidly at attention before him, "but I'm not going to. Based on your academic record and the statements from your fellow classmates I am going to give you one more chance. You're on probation for the rest of the semester. You also must complete five hundred hours in the Yard and starting Monday you are to report to Coach Thompson. Seems a man with hands like yours should put them too good use. Congratulations in addition to track your now a member of Navy's boxing team. Dismissed!"

Al saluted sharply, left faced and exited the office quickly. Slumping against the wall he exhaled the breath he had been holding for the last two hours. 500 hours was an unheard of punishment. Al and his LPCs were about to become quite good friends.

It was the last incident. 500 hours under full dress was not Al's idea of a good time and besides the Captain was right. Between track, boxing and schoolwork Al had no time to get into any trouble. Boxing served Al well. Whenever he got frustrated or angry he headed to the gym and vented on the speed bag. Between sports and a late growth spurt Al began to fill out nicely. The ladies certainly took notice and Al never lacked for a date. His initial shyness went away quickly as he worked his Italian charm on the ladies. His exploits with the ladies became legendary and after one particularly successful night Al earned the nickname Bingo.

Those were good times, hard times for sure Al reflected but they had prepared him for this. Flying his F4 Phantom Fighter Jet over the lush Vietnamese canopy Al could almost forget there was a war on below. Up here Al skated above the anger, above the bombs and bullets but he never let himself forget the dangers that lurked below. He knew as all pilots did that there was a risk every time he ducked down to drop a payload of bombs or strafe the jungle with machine gun fire. It was the danger and thrill that kept Al at the top of his game. Al lived to fly but more so he lived to get back to base, smoke a cigar and corrupt the pretty USO and Red Cross volunteers. Al was a happily married man, marrying his college sweetheart Beth right after graduation but he loved to pour on the charm for the ladies.

"Alright Jay we are almost on target. Stay loose, stay sharp and the last one back buys the first round. Al touched the picture of Beth he kept taped to his console and began his descent. He heard the rhythmic sounds of the anti-aircraft fire bursting all around him. This was Al's 20th mission. A few more runs, a few more months and Al would rotate back to the States and back to Beth.

He never saw the missile as it tore through his right wing. Cursing to himself Al pulled the ejection handle and rocketed into the sky. An ejected pilot was no longer considered a combatant but the VC didn't play by the rules. The bullet tore through Al's left shattering the bone. He crashed down onto the rice paddy below. Helpless he lay tangled up in his parachute as angry villagers advanced on him with sticks and fists. His last image before succumbing to the darkness was the face of an old woman.

A/N- The Code of Conduct was amended in 1977 and adopted in its present wording in 1988. I don't have the wording used during the 1960's. I have also deduced the ages based on QL episodes though Sam's and Al's past are ever flexible. Standard Operating Rules Apply. I don't own Quantum Leap or the character of Al (Albert) Calavicci. The show and all canon characters belong to their respective owners. I do own any characters and any story line not appearing in the show. It is my intellectual propery, please don't steal. I have made a fair effort to be exacting with regards to Navy items and procedures. I apologize for any slips or non time period specific mistakes. LPCs BTW are Leather Personnel Carriers otherwise known as boots. Please read and Review. Thank You.


	2. Article II

Article II

I will never surrender of my own free will. If in command I will never surrender the members of my command while they still have the means to resist.

Al knew he was in trouble. The fists and feet kept pummeling him as he tried to crawl away, to escape, but the mass of bodies kept him pinned to the same spot. Hands tore at his flight suit as angry villagers ripped his uniform from his body. Al tried curling up to protect his face and upper body but had to bite back a curse as the pain from his ribs ripped through his body. He was seriously screwed now. Al heard a rough voice shout through the crowd and instantly the beating ceased. Looking up, Al looked directly into the face of a North Vietnamese Army officer. Barking at someone behind him Al felt hands lift him up to a half kneeling half lying position. The look in the man's eyes was one of pure hate as he lifted his hand and backslapped Al hard across the face. Al felt his body twist with the blow and he fell out of the men's grip landing roughly once again on the ground the air knocked out of his already battered ribs. The man spoke again and Al felt himself once again lifted. This time the hands were dragging him away. Al struggled against the hands but the men just gripped even harder. Al could feel his strength leaving his body as he struggled against the pain in his ribs and legs…shit…his leg was really fucked up, lying skewed out behind him. Fighting the dizziness Al struggled as the men lifted him into a truck, roughly throwing him on the bed of the truck. Panic began to set in as Al assessed the situation. He had no idea where he was and no idea what his captors intended to do with him. He began to crawl to the edge of the bed but the guards realized what he was doing and took his AK-47 to Al's head. Al's vision swam with stars as he looked one last time at the face of the NVA officer before blissful unconsciousness overtook him.

A/N Thanks for the reviews. This is a really short chapter as Article II seems more fitting for ground troops and well Al is a flyer. Look I see all the hits I know people are reading this so please review okay.


	3. Article III

ARTICLE III- If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape. I will accept neither parole nor special favors from the enemy.

Al knew he was seriously screwed. His arm, leg and several ribs were broken both from the ejection and the subsequent beatings. He laid in the bed his head burning with fever. Thoughts raced through his head as he fought the delirium that washed over him in waves. Despite the fever and pain that wracked his body Al focused on his one mission, watching, waiting for just the right time to escape.

"The best chance to escape is right away," the SERE instructors voice echoed in Al's head. For four weeks Al and the other pilot candidates learned survival, and escape techniques. They endured a mock capture and interrogation, training the instructors told them could mean the difference between coming home alive and dead. Al listened intently as the other students did, but like all fliers he knew deep down this training was just that, training. Never would he need the lessons the instructors drilled into his head.

When the VC decided Al was stable enough they deposited him roughly into his cell. The small room was dark, steamy, and barely big enough for Al and the two other men he found already there. Al was still ill and immediately upon being thrown roughly into the cell he threw up all over the dirt floor.

"See that," a voice called out from the darkness," doesn't even tell us his name before he makes himself at home. Al painfully pulled himself up on his crutch but waves of nausea overcame him and as the world began to spin Al felt two hands steady him, "Woah cowboy easy there." Al felt himself being guided to a corner and helped down. He didn't know who his helper was but he was grateful for the water the man offered. "This here is Captain Mike Reynolds US Air Force. I'm Lieutenant Dave Johnson US Navy and you are?"

"Al…Lieutenant Al Calavicci US Navy." Al's voice was rough, his throat dry and scratchy," Where am I?"

"Well get to that in a moment. Now focus; I'm Lieutenant Dave Johnson US Navy, this here is Captain Mike Reynolds USAF, You are Lieutenant Al Calavicci US Navy, next to us are Lieutenants…Captain Johnson's voice echoed in Al's head. Over and over he drilled Al on the names of his fellow prisoners of war. The exercise helped Al focus on something other than the unrelenting pain he felt and the fever that threatened to fry his brain. Al knew too that should he escape…no he decided not should but when he escaped the information would help the American forces find and help the other POWS. For hours Johnson and Reynolds walked Al around the room and held him as the pain and nausea overcame him. They made him repeat back the names over and over till they were certain Al could recite the names in his sleep. Sometimes they would get Al talking about another topic but repeatedly they returned to the list of names. Johnson and Reynolds also taught Al the rules of the camp and techniques for communicating with his fellow prisoners. By wrapping a shirt around the tin cup each man was given, a POW could talk to the fellow in the cell next to him. Reynolds also taught Al the series of knocks and pauses that spelled out the alphabet. It was the most effective form of communication the men had.

As Al's injuries began to heal his thoughts turned more and more to escape. He knew that the camp was somewhere in the jungle and based on the size was probably an outpost. This would make his mission difficult but Al was confident he could do it. Everyday as he went about his morning routine Al made mental notes of the camp's location and defenses. He looked for a chance, any pattern he could exploit to his advantage. Escape fueled Al and every day as his leg healed and he got stronger he looked for a chance.

One day the door to the cell opened and the guard Al called Dick motioned for Al to follow him. Al exited his cell and seeing no one else around spun around and punched Dick in the face. The man fell to the ground with a thud. It was a foolish decision but Al knew he needed to take any and all opportunities to escape, to aid the others. He ran for the camp's perimeter, a line of barbed wire surrounding the cleared jungle landscape. Suddenly he heard a shout and without looking back Al knew that the camp was being alerted to his escape attempt. He got to the wire but he never got any further. The shot that tore through his shoulder threw him into the wire. He lay tangled up in the barbs as his blood ran onto the dirt below. He felt himself being grabbed, his arms twisted painfully behind him. Al bit back a curse but the scream escaped his lips. Fists and rifle stocks rained down on Al's head and chest and he struggled against the strong arms holding him steadily in place. The pain burned white hot and stars exploded against his eyeballs. He felt himself go limp as the now familiar feeling of unconsciousness overcame him.

When he woke up again Reynolds and Johnson were gone. Al was disoriented. The cell he now lay in was small; barely room enough for Al to stretch out full length. Al who normally found comfort in the confines of a jet's cockpit now felt claustrophobic in the dark damp space. Al's head ached and as he struggled to sit up he heard the blood pound in his ears. Suddenly Al realized it wasn't the sound of blood he was hearing but a tapping from the wall next to him. Fearful he moved closer to the wall. He didn't know if this was a trap. For days Al sat as the tapping would come and go. He recognized the pattern to the tapping and finally desperate for news and contact with another person he tapped back. The answer was surprising.

"Finally"

"Who are you?"

"Captain Dale Everts, Army…and you?"

"Great," Al thought with a slight chuckle, "My first contact and it's a ground pounder."

"Lieutenant Al Calavicci, Navy" Al tapped back. He could almost imagine the man next to him swear as the realization hit him the same as it hit Al. The thought made Al smile his first true smile in a log time

"Where am I?"

The answer came back strong and undeniable, "Hanoi"

Oh boy.

AN- Thanks for the reviews. I see the hits so keep them coming. Someof the information in this chapter was inspired by Sen John McCain's Book Faith of Our Fathers- I strongly recommend reading it. SOP Rules apply. I don't own QL or the character of Al Calavicci. Any characters or situations not appearing in the show are my intellectual property. Please don't steal.


	4. Article IV

**ARTIVCLE IV**

If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith with my fellow prisoners. I will give no information or take part in any action which may be harmful to my comrades. If I am senior, I will take command. If not, I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and will back them up in every way.

Al liked Dale Everts. Despite the man's misfortune of having chosen the wrong branch of the military Al found Dale to be a kindred soul, a quick wit, intelligent, funny, and reliable. When Al was brought back bruised, bloody, and beaten after one of the VCs very special sessions, it was Dale that got him talking, got Al focusing on anything other than the pain that threatened to consume his very existence. Al was a life-long Yankees fan. Al and Dale would spend hours swapping stories about games they had seen, games they would see and which teams were the best. Dale was a native Bostonian who worshipped at the shrine of Ted Williams. Al argued for the greatness that was DiMaggio and Mantle. It was a friendly rivalry that never got out of hand. The communications between the two men were their lifelines, the port in the storm that allowed each to face the next day and the day after that.

Like Al, Dale was a family man. He was ten years older than Al and had been an enlisted man in the Army before being chosen for Officer's Candidate School. Al was wholly impressed to find out the man was a Mustang. Dale wanted to fly and after graduating OCS he went to the US Army Flight School in Fort Rucker Alabama to learn to fly Iroquois Helicopters. Dale loved the Huey, he loved being able to take the bird and fly it hard and fast over the lush green canopy. He described to Al what it was like to fly at NAPES at speeds over 100 mph. It was a feeling Al shared and he looked forward to getting back to it soon. Dale had just made Captain and was chosen to head up an Aviation Battalion attached to the 101st Airborne Division. It was a huge step in Dale's career and one he was very excited about. The week before he was to assume command, one of Dale's fellow pilots was shot during a mission. The group was shorthanded and Dale volunteered to fly that day. Dale and his co-pilot were delivering supplies to troops in the AShau Valley when a RPG hit the Huey's blades. They crashed, and Dale's co-pilot was killed instantly. Dale's arms were broken. He tried covering himself in the jungle, to sit tight till help came, but the NVA followed the trail of blood and found him. Despite his broken arms, they beat him, fastened his arms behind his back, and marched him miles to a camp. He was delirious and sick with fever, barely on the edge of consciousness when they finally stopped. The camp doctors plastered his arms in heavy casts and he lay in a hospital. He tried once to escape but was recaptured, beaten and marched for miles on end until finally he was sent north to Hanoi. He had been a POW since February 1967. To Al, it was as though Dale was telling his story. Dale had a wife and two small sons waiting for him at home. Al's heart sank as he listened to Dale talk about his boys. The oldest was just ten, the youngest seven. Al tried to imagine what it was like for his own wife Beth, to be waiting at home for word about her husband, but he pushed those thoughts out of his head as quickly as they intruded, he couldn't imagine what it must be like to be waiting for your husband and having children as well. The boys Dale Jr. and Matthew were Dale's whole world and the one thing that kept him going. He was going to go home to see his boys.

After one particularly brutal session of interrogation Al was thrown headfirst into his cell. His arms were numb from the ropes; a blessing given all Al could really concentrate on was the intense pain of his ribs and head. He was coughing, making the pain worse with each hitched breath. From the cell next to him he could hear the distinct knock that signified Dale wanted to talk. Al crawled over to the wall and placed his cup against the wall.

"Hey Al?"

"What?"

"Why is the sky blue?"

"Why?"

"God loves the infantry"

Al smiled in spite of himself. The bastard. He could hear Dale laughing next to him and the sound made Al forget the pain for the time being. He had never seen Captain Dale Everts but he knew the man was one of the only things keeping him fighting day in and day out. For that Al was grateful.


	5. Article V

**ARTICLE V**

When questioned should I become a prisoner of war, I am required to give only my name, rank, service number, and date of birth. I ill evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability. I will make no oral or written statements disloyal to my country and its allies or harmful to their cause.

Ropes hurt…rods hurt…Doc's breath…yeah that probably hurt most of all. Al didn't know how long he had been suspended from the ceiling his arms pulled roughly back behind him, suspended from the ceiling. The pain was intense, made worst from the burning in his shoulder where he was shot. Al didn't know how long he had been there; it could have been minutes, days or a week. Every time Al started to doze off he felt the sharp thwack of a bamboo rod across his back. It had to be morning; Bunny and Shifty were on duty. Bunny was young, probably barely older than fifteen, his black pajama uniform hung off his thin frame. The only thing larger than his uniform was his front teeth. Shifty, well Shifty was the first cross-eyed Vietnamese Al had ever seen. Al wondered how he managed not to walk into any walls. Doc was the worse. He was one of those people who you knew was in a room by their scent. He was a mixture of fish and cheap cigarettes. Doc was the camp doctor, but his speciality wasn't fixing injuries, it was causing them.When Doc was on duty the air was thick with the smell of sweat, cigarette smoke and fish. It was the most effective form of torture and occasionally Al would fight back the urge to tell his captures anything they wanted in order to get away from the stench.

The sessions began the same every time. A guard would come to Al's cell and summon him to the interrogation room where a chair would sit in front of the tape recorder. A microphone was placed in front of the chair. These sessions never ended well. Al was stubborn and refused to give in to the VC claims. They wanted him to confess…confess to being a criminal, a murderer, destroyer of innocent women and children. Al steadfastly refused to answer the questions. He stuck to the basics, his name, rank, social security number and age. He repeated the details like a mantra. Name, age, rank, serial number, name, rank, age, serial number. The blows would rain down on his head and chest, a slap to the face, a knock across the head. When Al continued to refuse he was punished, pulled violently from the chair, his arms lashed behind his back. The ropes were then attached to a pulley and Al's arms were yanked till he was suspended from the ceiling, his body weight bearing down fully on his arms and shoulders. Al felt the ligaments pulling, tearing under the weight and strain. It was inhuman but then so was the enemy. The rules of warfare only applied to armies not guerrilla fighters. This fine line was one the VC exploited to their full advantage with Al and the other prisoners the unfortunate recipients of the VCs special brand of treatment. The North Vietnamese Regulars were no better. To Al it didn't matter what the uniform of his tormenters was, the end result was always the same. They wanted him to confess, to say he was a criminal. They promised him anything, better food, an end to the torture, but worst of all they offered him his freedom. Al refused, he was nothing without his honor and there was no way he was going to confess to a crime he wasn't guilty of. He wasn't a criminal, a mass murderer or anything else the VC and North Vietnamese tried to convince him he was. For weeks, months it seemed he held out, feeding Bunny and Shifty just enough lies to end the sessions. Al's favorite was his unit…it was a topic his captures went back to time and time again. They were obsessed with numbers…how many troops, where were they located…what were their plans. Once, after hanging for two or three days Al agreed to give them the names of the member's of his unit. Bunny released his ropes and as Al dropped to the floor his arms screaming in pain as the blood rushed back down into his numbed finger. But the answer was worth it. Al named in exquisite detail the members of his unit. He hoped his captures weren't football fans, if they were they would have quickly realized Al's unit was also the starting offensive line of the 1910 Navy football team. The very thought of the mindfuck he was getting over on the gooks kept Al going through the worst of the beatings. It was the strength, the anger, the pride that fed and propelled him through the long days and even longer nights, through hunger, fevers, solitary confinement, and endless days of torture and deprivation.

Al knew eventually everyone broke. He just hoped that when it happened to him he didn't become like the ones he saw, the informers, the ones who completely turned their backs on everything they had been taught, turned their backs on their country and fellow troops. Al didn't believe the stories the others tapped to him, warning him about the danger of the informers. Al refused to believe it until he saw them one day on his way to the water bucket. Two obviously American GIs were sitting in the courtyard of the prison. Quietly Al called to the two but instead of answering them, the men began yelling in Vietnamese. Three armed guards ran and roughly grabbed Al by the arms dragging him off. He was returned to his cell hours later, bruised, bloody, and half unconscious. In a way it strengthened Al's resolve and gave him the anger to make it through the next day. The men reminded him of stories GIs from his neighborhood would tell of the French women after the war, how they were dragged into the street and beaten, their heads shaved in shame for providing comfort to the enemy. Strangely, Al feared for these men. They had for all intents and purposes turned their backs on not only their fellow troops but on their country as well. Al knew like the women they no longer had a home. When they POWs got out of here they would not be on the planes, the other men would see to it their final resting place was on foreign soil. Al wanted to go home, honorably and with his dignity intact. When he broke he wanted nothing more than to die.

It was Doc who finally got Al to break. Somehow Al always knew it would be Doc. Doc didn't care about names, he wanted numbers…the number of troops, planes, ships, coordinates. Shifty and Bunny had just finished their round of party piñata with Al and Doc came waddling into the room, the foul stench surrounding everything and gagging Al in the process. Doc stood there, sweat pouring off his face and onto the dusty floor below collecting in a puddle that marked Doc's movements. Doc barked some orders at the two and al was released from his place on the ceiling. Al was placed in a chair his legs straight out in front of him, feet bare. He knew what was in store. Doc was a fan of the Turkish method of interrogation. Every time he deemed Al was hiding something or answering too slow the sharp crack of bamboo would fall across the soles of Al's feet. It was a blisteringly painful experience, one that left his feet a mass of raw meat. Usually, Doc waited a day or two between sessions but today he was particularly in a rage. American bombers had been carpet-bombing for several days and all of the guards were even more on edge. Doc placed the microphone near Al's mouth. Al licked his lips but there was no saliva to be had, his throat was dry and raw from the strangled screams of the past 24 hours. After an hour of evading questions Doc turned to Al and began beating on his feet. Over and over the bamboo whip whistled through the air and it landed wet against the soles of Al's feet. Doc looked up, Al was his prize, the one prisoner he hadn't yet gotten to break. After midnight on June 12th 1971, three years after his capture, Al turned to the microphone and gave up the coordinates for bombing runs along the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The information wasn't new, Al knew that the coordinates were from one of his very first missions but Al felt like a traitor, like the guys he saw in the courtyard, like the French women he had heard about. He wanted to die. He had betrayed his country and everything he had been taught. The information was good enough for Doc, he signaled to the other guards in the room and they dragged Al back to his cell. Al fell to the floor. Though he had been kept awake for over three days he began to dress the wounds as best he could, cleaning them with the ends of his shirt. From the corner he could hear Captain Everts on the other side of the wall. Despite Everts unfortunate association with the Army, Al relied on Everts and Everts on Al. Al's tapping was the first thing Dale heard when he was returned to his cell and it was the first thing Al heard when he was returned to his. Finding there was nothing more he could do for his feet other than pray they would heal and not get infected Al crawled on his hands and knees to the wall. Like a sinner needing confession, Al began to tap out what he had done. "Don't worry," Everts tapped," you did nothing wrong." It was what Al needed to hear as he broke down sobbing in the dark confines of his cell.

A/N In 1967 the military changed from using Serial Numbers to usung SSN as the primary form of identification. Al would have had both a serial number and a new SSN number. By 1968 when Al was captured most military people would have been fairly comfortable using the new number, this is why Al gives his SSN and not serial number.


	6. Article VI

Article VI

I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.

Down in the dark a man will do almost anything to keep sane. Blessed with a prodigious memory Al thought of better times in his life. He thought back to when he was younger, before the orphanage, before his mother dies and his father let. He thought of Trudy, her big brown eyes looking up into his. He remembered days at the park, pushing Trudy on the swings, her joyous laughter like music to his ears as he pushed his little sister higher and higher into the sky.

When the bombing began anew and lately it seemed as though the bombs were coming every day Al would remember back to his days at the Naval Academy. Every bomb bursting became the sound of leather on leather as he worked the speed bag or heavy bag. Boxing was all about control, rhythm, pacing, discipline. Mostly though, he thought about flying. As the planes sailed in low and fast Al's hands would mimic the controls, his mind and body going through the motions of each flight. The way he would arm the bombs, the pre-checks, checks and lists he ran through before, during and after each mission. Al knew from the sounds of the planes how high, low fast or slow the bombers were flying. Flying like boxing was all about control. Control over machinery, control over fear. Control kept you alive.

It occurred to Al the sound of no bombs was almost as disconcerting as the sound of constant bombing. He couldn't be sure he assumed the bombing had stopped for at least three days now. Suddenly the door to his cell opened and the small guard Al referred to as Chip motioned him out. The familiar twinge of panic settled itself into Al's gut but he quickly pushed it aside and got a hold of himself. He was led to the now familiar courtyard but the sight that met Al's eyes was one he was sure he would never forget. Standing around the courtyard were dozens of American prisoners of war. Al knew the camp was big but until now he never had a real sense of just how big the camp was. Dazed Al wandered around the outer edges of the group. The sound of whispered English was like music to Al's ears. From what he gathered no one really knew what was happening though the rumor mill was in full swing. Al felt a small tug at his elbow and swinging around Al found himself face to face with a tall brown haired man. Al had never seen him but he instantly knew who this was…this was Captain Dale Everts. Everts was leaning heavily on a crutch but his smile was wide…it was the most beautiful sight Al had seen in too long a time. The two men embraced and Al felt the thinness of Evert's body against his own. He knew the other man was probably also thinking the same thoughts but the curiosity of what was going on overrode all other thoughts. The questions were answered as the head of the camp approached the small gathering. Calling for attention the POWs quietly quieted as they strained to listen to the small Vietnamese Colonel before them. The man read off the cease fire agreement and while Al couldn't understand a lot of what the man said it became apparent how this affected them when the large deuce and a half rolled up. One by one his captors began calling off names and slowly men made their ways to the trucks. Those that could climbed up on their own but many a man required a little assistance from those already on board. Al was in a daze when he heard he own name called and it was only from a shove by Everts that he began walking to the truck. His arms were weak from the years of torture and the hand offered to him was gratefully acknowledged. Al spent most of the ride trying to come to terms with what was happening when the next thing he was fully aware of was the plane has arrived at an airfield. Ahead of them was an Air Force C-130. The men climbed aboard where they were greeted by the crew and shown to their seats. As the plane headed down the runway there was a collective held breath but as the plane leapt into the sky and pointed away from the country the tension relieved itself almost instantly and a collective cheer went up from the men. Six hours later the plane landed at Clark Air Force Base Philippines. As the plane docked the men were briefed on what was about to happen. Each man was given an escort who would help them through the process ahead. On shaky legs Al got off the plane into the bright Philippine's sunshine. His eyes long used to the darkness took awhile to adjust to the harsh light but spread before him was an honor guard and crowds of cheering Americans. It was all too much and try as he may to regain control over his emotions Al felt the tears fall down his face. He truly was home.


End file.
